Chapter 213: An Expectant Father

NORA’S POV

The afternoon cold hit me the second I pushed through the thick glass doors of the economics hall.

Snow was falling in steady, quiet flakes over the campus quad, dusting the bare oak trees and sticking to the brick paths.

I pulled my knitted scarf up over my chin and quickened my pace toward North Hall.

It had been a long four hours. My morning macroeconomics seminar had run straight into two hours of data entry for Professor Hastings’ research project. My eyes were burning from staring at columns of inflation data and regression models, and all I wanted was a hot mug of peppermint tea and a warm pair of wool socks.

When I reached the third floor of North Hall, the faint smell of buttered microwave popcorn was drifting down the corridor.

I unlocked Room 304 and pushed the door open.

Priya was sitting cross-legged on her bed, a large yellow bowl of popcorn balanced on her knees.

She was wearing oversized gray sweatpants and a vintage Briar Law sweatshirt, her hair pulled back into a messy bun held together with a pencil. A stack of casebooks was spread around her duvet, but her laptop was open on her desk, streaming a soft indie playlist.

She looked up the moment I walked in, a grin spreading across her face.

"Look who survived the econometrics dungeon," Priya said, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth. "You look frozen, Bennett. Get your boots off before you track slush all over the rug."

"I am frozen," I said, kicking off my winter boots by the door and setting them neatly on the rubber tray. "Hastings had me cleaning spreadsheet errors from three different graduate assistants. Apparently nobody knows how to format a CSV file properly."

"Graduate students are just undergrads who ran out of reasons to leave," Priya declared, sliding the popcorn bowl toward the edge of her mattress. "Here. Eat some carbs. It’s hot."

I hung my winter coat on the wooden peg, slipped on my thick wool socks, and walked over to grab a handful of popcorn. The warm salt and butter tasted like heaven after four hours of dry data.

"Did Knox make it to Vermont?" Priya asked, leaning back against her pillows and watching me with genuine curiosity. "Or did Jake accidentally throw the playbook out the bus window on the highway?"

A fond smile tugged at the corners of my lips.

"He called me around lunchtime," I said, sitting down at my desk and leaning my chin on my palm. "They crossed the state line right before noon. Jake was yelling into the phone begging for Mom’s walnut scones, and Bear was trying to swat him with a ball cap."

Priya laughed, shaking her head. "Those boys are... a lot. But how was Knox? Did he sound okay?"

She asked the question with that protective tone she always used when it came to people she cared about. She knew Garrison Sheridan had officially cut Knox off, canceled his cards, and terminated his trust accounts.

"He sounded calm," I said softly. "Grounded. He said the bus was boring and smelled like hockey gear, but he sounded okay. He’s focused on the game tonight."

"Good," Priya said firmly, nodding her approval. "Knox walking away is probably a good thing for him. But you know what else?"

"What?"

"Knox has something his father will never understand," Priya said, gesturing with a handful of popcorn. "He has people who actually give a damn about him for who he is, not what name is printed on his credit card. The SinBin guys would take a bullet for him. And he has you."

A warm flutter spread through my ribs. I looked across at my best friend, feeling a rush of gratitude. "Thanks, Pri."

"Don’t get sentimental on me, Bennett," she smirked, tossing another kernel into the air and catching it. "I’m just stating verifiable legal facts. Now, are we watching the live stream of the game at seven, or am I going to have to listen to you pace the floor like an expectant father?"

"We’re definitely streaming it," I said, opening my laptop. "Coach Brennan said Vermont plays an aggressive forecheck, but if Knox gets space in the slot, he’ll tear their defense apart."

"Listen to you," Priya teased, propping her chin on her hands. "From reluctant tutor to full-time hockey analyst in three months. Love really does corrupt the brightest minds."

I threw a couch pillow at her, which she deflected easily with one elbow, laughing.

I settled back into my desk chair, pulling up my phone while my laptop booted up.

I scrolled through a couple of group texts from my economics study group, replied to a short message from my mother, and then tapped open Instagram to kill a few minutes.

My feed refreshed with the usual mix of campus clubs, winter photos of Boston, and study memes.

I tapped over to the Explore tab.

Right at the top of the search bar, under recent regional stories, a familiar blonde profile picture popped up.

Vanessa Orwell.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I hadn’t seen Vanessa’s profile since the disastrous weekend at Emerald Pines Resort, where she had paraded around as the winter ambassador for the Orwell Foundation and tried to sabotage the showcase.

After Knox publicly called out Harold Orwell and defended me, Vanessa had mostly vanished from campus social feeds.

Curiosity got the better of me. I tapped her story circle.

The image loaded instantly.

It was a crystal glass filled with gin and tonic, sitting on a small round glass table. In the background was a towering, rustic stone fireplace crackling with burning pine logs. Through a tall window behind the hearth, gray winter clouds and white snow stretched out across a frozen lake.

And right across the bottom of the photo was a neat geo-tag:

Burlington Waterfront Hotel — Burlington, Vermont.

Below the tag was a single line of text in crisp, white font:

Checking in on old investments. Some people just don’t know what they’re walking away from.